


Painting with Ashes

by NightAshes



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Creativitwins, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Platonic Intruality, Remus angst, brief mentions of weapons, fire as in a campfire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:48:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23774836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightAshes/pseuds/NightAshes
Summary: Remus wants to help Roman create, but Roman doesn't want his help. Is there a place for the "bad" creativity.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 66





	Painting with Ashes

_ Riiiiiiiiiiiiiip _

“Hey, Roman.”

_ Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiip _

“Roman.”

_ Riiiiiiiiiiip _

“Roooman.”

_ Riiiiiiiiiiiiip _

“I swear, Remus, if you don’t stop-“

“I’m boooored.” Remus laments, sprawled across the bottom-bunk, his head hanging off the side, while his hands work on ripping out another page from his already half-destroyed magazine. The dilapidated shreds of paper lie scattered across his torso and on the ground beneath his head. 

Remus stares across their room at his brother, who is currently engrossed in his work for Thomas. The prince scribbling away at a particularly vexing part of a script, his brow creased and his lips pursed. In Remus’s opinion this whole “script-writing nonsense” was driving Roman completely insane and so it was his job, as a good brother (the best brother, really), to pester Roman into finally  _ finally _ taking a break. 

Remus rips out another page, the sound satisfying some primal urge of destruction as he petitions his brother once again for some attention. “Can’t we do something together? Come on, we could fight! A good spar has got to be more fun than drilling out another failed script idea.”

BANG

Roman’s hands slam against his desk. 

Bingo. A wicked grin affixes itself to the rancid side’s face. His voice becomes sickly-sweet. “Yes, it probably would be better if you just turned the whole project over to me.” He rises, slinking across the room to stand above his brother, a vulture peering over his shoulders, inspecting the remains of the crinkled script. “You are clearly burnt-out on ideas. I’m sure I could offer Thomas a truly fresh perspective.” The duke reaches out to take a hold of the project. Roman, quick as lightning, slaps his hand away. 

“Oh, touchy.”

“Remus, please.”

Remus pauses. Thinking.

“You know, I am also creativity. Why can’t I help?”

“I don’t need help. I’m fine on my own.”

Remus crosses his arms, pouting. “I don’t think that’s fair. It’s boring, watching you do all the work while I’m just told to stay out of the way. But Thomas forbid, the bad creativity contributes!”

“Remus, you aren’t the bad creativity.”

“Well, then let me help!” Remus reaches again for the script.

“No!” Roman yanks the pages away, holding them close to his chest. His eyes wide and his breath quick. As if Remus’s help was the worst thing in the world. And Remus, well, Remus was not having fun anymore.

“....okay...okay.” He nods, backing away from the desk. “....okay...I’ll just leave.”

“Remus, wait. I-“

The door to the imagination closes shut on his words.

Remus sighs. A heavy sigh. Much too heavy for the rambunctious side. He drags his hand down his face, as if the simple gesture could wipe away that heaviness. Could ease the weight that is settling in his chest. He breathes. Breathing in the air of the imagination. Air that is full of creative potential and...cheeriness. It did not match his mood at all. 

Shrugging his shoulders, he marches forward. Trudging through the rolling hills and the flowering meadows that mark Roman’s side of the creativity. He feels his own dour mood grate in sharp contrast to the sunny rangelands. He longs for the comforts of his dark forest, for the shadows of his thick canopy, and the haunting echoes of his gloomy cave. 

He watches his feet, gliding through the long grass, crushing the thin blades beneath his boots, only for the wild grasses to rise again as he continues forward. Leaving almost no sign of his presence. That he has passed through. That Remus Sanders the “the bad creativity” has had any impact on Roman’s perfect little meadows. Something about this frustrates him, it grates against his already frayed nerves. And they break. 

He stomps on the stems, he jumps on the blades, he kicks at the grasses, he drags his feet through the dirt, spraying up clumps of soil. He falls to the ground and tears out fistfuls of plant and earth. Pulling up chunks of vegetation. Throwing them around. A wild desire is fulfilled as he claws at the land, the dirt pushing up beneath his nails beds, covering his hands, staining his pants. He smiles. A wild smile. A smile of presence. The smile of a child that has discovered the joy of making mud cakes and of knowing the feel of the earth between his hands. The smile of being here in this moment and in this place. He is alive.

He looks up, measuring the distance left between him and his forest. He feels the desire to run between his trees and to unleash a wild cry of pure existence. What he sees is something he most certainly did not expect. The fatherly side, waddling forwards, his arms straining to keep hold of a large and cumbersome box. The top is open revealing paper, wire, ceramics, and the ends of other projects sticking up and over the lid. Patton, who is so focused on keeping his grip, does not take notice of the feral presence settled within the grasses. 

His mustache tickles as he smiles wide and broad. He creeps forward, summoning his mace, and cracking his neck. With a breath, he lunges, smashing the box from Patton’s hands and scattering the contents across the pasture. Patton screams in shock, flinging his hands up in fear, confusion written across his face as his eyes swing wildly around to land on… Remus.

Remus, who is cackling wildly, “Well, hello! I th-“ He cuts himself off, completely forgetting whatever clever remark he had planned. His gaze is locked onto the spilled art projects that now litter the ground… his spilled art projects. 

“Wha-“ His mind is blank. He can’t even remember the last time he hadn’t had some thought running through his head but this…

Patton hands flutter around his person. He rushes to explain, “Oh, Kiddo, look I was going to ask you if I could take them. But I didn’t even know what was pulling me towards the imagination in the first place. I was just in my room and, well, you know I keep and preserve Thomas’s memories. Good, bad, sad, happy, anxious, creative, and these they just have so many memories attached to them. And they were just lying there, neglected! I had to take them. To take care of them! And I, oh, I’m explaining this terribly! I, just… Remus?”

Remus is not listening. He is crouched on the ground, carefully shifting through the discarded pieces. He lifts one up, an old crayon drawing, just a bunch of scribbles, he can’t even tell what it was supposed to be. He laughs. He wants to cry. He smashes it between his hands, crushing it into a ball.

“Remus, STOP!” Patton yells, grabbing the crumpled drawing away from the feral side, holding it close to his chest.

Remus looks up at him, his smile stretched, his eyes rimmed red. “Don’t you see, Patton? I’m tired of being told to stop.”

And there it is, a look of pity. 

Remus grabs the box, he flattens it with his fists, he summons some heat and sets it aflame. He feeds the fire, throwing in all of his past endeavors, his attempts at creativity. His paper mache eldritch horrors, his paintings of mayhem, a phallic sculpture that shatters as he throws it into the bonfire of his past. Paintings from when he was six, drawings from when he was twelve, origami from when he was fourteen, poetry from when he was sixteen, songs from when he was twenty. All of it up in flames, burning bright, the sparks singeing their creator. The smoke rises high. It fills the air and wipes away what was. And for a moment Remus feels free. 

He feels himself rise with the smoke. He feels his heart cleansed with the flames, a release of everything that has been building. 

A hand settles on his shoulders. Patton is sitting beside him, his hand still clutching the crumbled drawing.

“Sometimes, you just gotta let go of the past, Patton. Live in the moment. Let everything just roll off your back and only focus on what is. On here and now.”

Patton looks down at the picture in his hand. “I protect Thomas’s memories.” He unfolds the paper, smooths out the wrinkles. He speaks softly. “Thomas was so happy when he drew this.”

Remus gives Patton a look of confusion. “I drew that, not Thomas.”

The fatherly side sniffles, “You drew this together. It’s supposed to be Thomas electrifying his brother.” Patton shakes his head affectionately. “It was your idea. Probably because Roman had annoyed you that day.” Patton holds the drawing out to Remus, he gently accepts it.

A soft “huh” escapes his lips. “I had forgotten.”

“I’m not surprised. It was a long time ago. But I… Well, I remember everything.”

“Doesn’t that hurt.”

“It can. Sometimes all I want to do is just push all those feelings away. But I’m told that isn’t exactly healthy.” He gives his fellow side a sad smile.

“You don’t have to feel that way. You can let go of these memories. That's what I do. When you’re feeling like everything is too much! Just let it all out! Scream, shout, tear through the world! And then you just let it all go. Forget the past. We are only here and now.” He waves the drawing through the air, gesturing madly.

Patton follows the drawing with his hands, in some attempt at protection. “Oh, careful, Remus.”

“No! Don’t be careful. Careful is holding in all those feelings until they come bursting out! We won’t hold anything in! We forget the past.” He throws the picture towards the flames. 

Patton’s hands are already there. He catches the painting. “Please, Remus. This memory. Why would you want to destroy this?” He looks down at the worn paper. Smudges of fingerprints, of ash, cover the edges.

“Why would I want to hold onto it?”

“You and Thomas created it together.”

“And now, all we do is hurt each other. He pushes me away and I lash out.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way.”

“Are you going to change that?” Remus raises an eyebrow.

“No. You are.” Patton speaks. And once more, he passes Remus the drawing. “Don’t destroy it, Remus. Create something new.”

“Create something new.” Remus hums to himself in thought. He waves away the flames, leaving behind only cinders. The rancid side leans forward, dipping his fingers in the ashes, and then he begins to paint. He brushes his fingers across the page, leaving behind blacks and greys. He dips his fingers into the fire’s remains again and again. Scooping up more ash to work with. A border begins to form. A collection of swirls and streaks. It accentuates the bright colors of the crayon scribbles. They pop against the smoky background. Old and new, merging and creating. Ash and crayon. Darkness and color. Remus is transfixed. He is no longer throwing away the past, he is rewriting it. And it is… it is something to be proud of.

“Wow.” Patton whispers beside him. “Two memories, blended together. It’s amazing.”

Remus cocks an eyebrow. “Eh, well it’s okay.” He smiles. “But I guess I will keep it. To remember this.”

Patton and Remus head back together. They talk. Wildly and passionately. About art. About memories. About jokes and puns. About anything that comes rushing through their heads. And it’s weird. And it’s silly and they love it. They laugh loud and merrily. And when they arrive at the mindpalace through Roman and Remus’s door, still laughing at some joke. They begin talking excitedly about the perfect place to hang the picture. Above the desk, beside the mirror, or on the wall by the bed.

Remus looking around slowly begins to take notice that the shreds of paper he had left behind seem to have multiplied. The pieces of magazine have been joined with the shreds of a script. The very same script that Roman had been working on. The one that had been irritating him for hours on end. And now it was destroyed and thrown away on the ground.

“Roman, you have to see what Remus created.” Patton speaks from behind him. 

Remus whips around to see Roman standing in the doorway, his arms full of an array of weapons.

“Oh, it looks great.” Roman speaks, still fumbling with an armload of swords, daggers, and arrows. “Remus, I… I’m sorry if I made you feel like you couldn’t help. I was just so mad at the script and myself and I wanted to be perfect. And I mean you were a jerk, but that’s nothing new.”

Remus scoffs. “Hey, you needed a break. I knew that, that’s why I pushed you. But that’s what brothers do. Being jerks is how we show we care.”

Roman shifts the weapons, raising them as much as he can without losing his grip. “You still want to spar?”

“Heck, yes I do.” Remus grins. He supposes that all in all there are some memories that really are worth holding onto, memories that remind him of who he is. Because he is creativity. One of two. And sure, sometimes it can be hard but he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

**Author's Note:**

> HI, guys!! I hope you enjoy this story! I appreciate you all!


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